


The Nature of Inviting

by calicokat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:52:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicokat/pseuds/calicokat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley should have his mind on the Great Game, but he can't get his mind off the filthy things he'd like to do to his partner in crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nature of Inviting

**Author's Note:**

> No beta reader, any mistakes are my own.
> 
> Supernatural and all related properties © The CW Television Network, and are used without permission.

"Good on you, mate. Fifth Heaven. That's just about smack in the middle. Of course, Raphael still holds second – is that right? I'm honestly not clear on if their valued in numerical order if Heaven's a suburbia."

Crowley doesn't give a damn about Heaven, as long as Castiel is holding his ground. Unfortunately the angel shows up talking in detail about deployments and victories – nothing Crowley could use against him, of course – intended as proof of his progress. It's a no-win situation, since Crowley wants _that_ , only Castiel makes war sound as exciting as reading the coupon section of the Saturday paper, monotone and skimming over the gory bits.

Castiel turns his head to the side like a bird.

"The Heavens are individual twelve-dimensional spheres orbiting at a fixed distance from one another. Technically individual human souls generate their own honeycomb of Heavens, but there are seven points in space from which—" Blah blah. Blah blah blah. Blah. Blah blah.

It's not difficult to pretend to pay attention to the angel. Crowley puts on his 'listening' face, brows lifted, and pays more attention to Castiel's excellent bone structure and tremendous lips and his Adam's apple bobbing beneath his manfully stubbled chin. Crowley always appreciates a man in a tie. Castiel's slacks are thin enough that if he lets his eyes wander sometimes he can pick out the interesting bits. Not just his cock, although that's always a bonus, but the cut of his thighs. Inner thighs are a plus. If he could go a round with that arse and that mouth, the things he would make Castiel do—

Back up. Too distracted. Angry angel. Innocent expression. Angrier angel. Maintain the lie. Worse to give him something concrete to latch onto.

"You endlessly fantasize about me." Oh. That deep, angry voice as ragged as if his throat has just been run through a blender. Delightful. Crowley's face owns up to absolutely nothing, but that isn't fooling the creature. Castiel's scowl darkens further. "I can feel your hideous red eyes trying to burrow beneath my skin. Have you overlooked what will happen to you if you gaze on my true form?"

A lascivious smile breaks across Crowley's face.

"Cas. You really do care."

The angel lifts his chin.

"You will cease being overly familiar with me."

"Cut out my tongue – but remember you're the one who sent me shopping for a new vessel."

Flawlessly executed turnover in power. 

Crowley rolls his eyes, swaggers two steps closer to the angel. Two steps closer, three steps ahead. Keep up the pressure. Smile like a winner.

"I'd like to have you on your knees. Piss on your face. Wet face, wet hair and those pouty lips wrapped around my cock like the filthy slut you are."

The angel's raging thoughts grind to a halt. Crowley watches his expression switch from anger to perplexity without his brows unknitting.

"I don't understand. Why would you want to urinate on me?"

Crowley waves the question away.

"It's a _dominance_ display."

"I doubt it would have the intended effect."

"You have no idea, poppet."

Was that smirk too salacious? Clearly. Now Castiel has him by the clothes, scowling imperiously at his torso.

The angel's hands grip the breasts of Crowley's dress shirt and his jacket, pulling them tight at the shoulders. Cloth tears. Buttons fly off, clattering onto the concrete. The cold air of the underground bunker hits Crowley's chest. Not a concern. The concern is being shoved by the chest with irresistible force. A tool cart is knocked clattering aside and pulled over as Crowley grasps for it in the faint hope it will stop his own hard landing, implements and samples scattering when it crashes to the floor.

The demon hauls in breath despite his vessel's pain, the splinters of crushed ribs piercing his lungs. If he hadn't tensed – resisted – the angel's hands wouldn't have crushed his ribcage.

Note to self: Next time, play along with the angry angel. No posturing.

Holding on to dignity, he leaves his injuries intact, refusing to prepare for a fight. He sits up sourly, eyeing Castiel with caution. His tie hangs from his neck against the dark curls on his chest, and his bare skin.

Castiel looms above him from the same place he stood when he drove Crowley into the floor seven feet away with the shattering force of his palms. God's soldier, as joyless and hostile as ever.

"Is that it?" Castiel says.

"Excuse me?"

Damn. Off his guard now.

"Your body. You wanted to show it to me."

Right. Seriously?

"There _is_ **more** ," Crowley says.

Castiel's frown deepens.

"Your genitalia are only flesh. They're not even yours."

"I wonder what _your_ vessel would say if we sat down for a little tête-à-tête."

"It's no concern of yours. Go on. Continue."

The inflexibility behind Castiel's command is partnered with blatantly clinical interest.

"Give me a minute," Crowley barters. "It's not particularly exciting all flaccid. It's not so impressive as mine was, either – but you can't take it with you."

Crowley slides his palm to the hardening bulge in his slacks, massaging the length of his cock through the fine black fabric. He despises submission with every part per million of demonic vapor inside him. He could use Castiel's gaze riveted on him more passionately than _that_. An annoyed, suffering lament groans from his throat at the time it's taking his conflicted dick to fuel up on blood. With a sigh of relief, he finally unfastens his slacks, hooking his thumb to pull down his black silk briefs. His engorged cock swings free, swaying until it rights itself, standing up like the good little soldier Castiel is. The idea of his two little soldiers going through their drills, both drooling, puts a grin on his face.

Castiel makes his constipated expression.

"I've observed the physical variation of human males across history. It's clear you overestimate your influence over me because of a lingering sentimentality for your past humanity."

Not what Castiel's body language is saying.

"Damn it, Cas. The problem is you _fundamentally_ do not understand sex," Crowley says. The angel continues staring, gaze traveling from Crowley's eyes down to the erection standing proud before his glory trail and back up again. The intensity of the angel's ridiculously large blue eyes cataloging his bared chest provokes lazy, delicious convolutions in the demon's stomach. He opts for continued patience. "Do you feel anything? Physically. Do your penis and testicles feel warm? Little quiver in your belly? Pulse racing, maybe?"

"I've had an erection before, Crowley," Castiel says.

"Good. Good on you. And are you having one _now?_ " Crowley leads on, answer apparent.

Patience is a scare resource when Crowley's body is sick of scrutiny. Heat rises to his recently-chilled skin. Besides the pain – the King of Hell isn't moved by a little pain – each breath drags his tie across his chest hair and just brushes his belly button. His nipples contract to little nubs in answer to the sensation. If he had the power to trap Castiel on his bed, he'd do every lewd thing his flesh desires. It's not that easy with something as formidable as Cas. He wouldn't like to be trapped anywhere with him, ostensibly in charge or not.

The meditative angel, gaze still rapt on Crowley's body, comes to a verdict.

"Yes. I am having an erection, and my chest feels tight. I can't determine if I want to have sex with you or my body is only mimicking your own in anticipation of the prospect of other sexual encounters."

"Progress! It _can_ learn. This is…excruciating. You're obliged to at least blow me at this point."

"No. I'm under no such obligation."

"You don't strip a bloke, tell him to take his willy out, let him work himself up to a stiff one and just leave him. It's damned inconsiderate is what it is. It's a social obligation."

The angel holds his arms out from his sides, a shrug of armistice. Now he's looking at Crowley as if Crowley's the obtuse one. The demon could do without that.

"I simply don't follow how exposing yourself necessarily leads to sex. I don't feel…sexual. It's only an accumulation of blood in my penis."

Castiel's voice and Castiel's vessel remain in discord. The angel lowers his arms, shifting awkwardly from one foot to another. His brow again tightens.

Crowley's brows rise invitingly. Castiel's eyes haven't strayed since he shoved him to the floor; Crowley would like to keep it that way. Leaning on one arm, he pulls his shirt open further on one side, pushes it further open on the other; exhales as the basement air touches too-hot skin. With a tug, gaze on Castiel, he insouciantly loosens the knot of his tie. The angel's gaze attends Crowley's incremental exposure. The demon laughs through his nose, smile brimming with self-pride.

Crowley can picture exactly how he looks like strewn on the floor among spilled implements of science and torture, broken vials of fluid lying comingling in puddles. His skin holds a faint sheen of oil from long hours at work without refreshment. Castiel is unlikely to make connections, but his vessel's younger body can recognize all the signals of social dominance without him: heavy brows, broad cheekbones, thick jowls, high hairline and thinning hair opportunely increasing the prominence of his forehead. The dark, healthy hair of his body is the picture of mature virility. He isn't tall but a broad body negates that. His swollen, uncut cock stands monument. Confidence ties it all together. The package deal makes a statement to women on his suitability for getting children on them. It says to men they should quit while they're ahead or get buggered. Castiel is wearing an animal that knows its place—Crowley doesn't have to rely on the alien consciousness inside to catch a clue.

Crowley slides his fingers down his tie, pulling it forward from his chest, pausing with it pinched between thumb and forefinger, the angel's eyes stuck to the exact place. Castiel's breathing has noticeably quickened.

" _Sex_ is about what my body can do for your body – and vice versa. We aren't even touching yet and my body is telling yours to turn on all those whizbang hormones. Come here, kitten. Touch me."

The demon's fingers slide in opposite directions, pushing the fabric from between his fingers in a silent snap. The tie falls back to Crowley's stomach. Castiel seeks duplicity in Crowley's expression. Crowley arches his brow skeptically. Of the thousand designs he _might_ have for the angel, he'll take a semi-clinical exploration if that's what's on the table. It's kinky enough to get off to.

Castiel hesitates, shaking his head, but he looks less certain and increasingly aroused.

"Give me the benefit of the doubt. That's all I ask," Crowley says before the angel decides to think his erection away. "Have I let you down?"

Castiel broadcasts his annoyance with a frown and a scowl. He approaches in a stiff legged walk. Crowley battles away his instincts and dignity, spreading his legs, allowing the skeptical angel to kneel between them. His cock rewards him with a hot shiver. He entertains grabbing Castiel by the back of the head and urging him to suck dick, but his ambition overreaches his comparative power – something he has to say less and less these days.

Fingertips light on Crowley, tracing a line down the patterned silk tie much like Castiel's own. The angel's gaze slides to Crowley's nipples, squinting at the puckered areolas and hard buds.

"You totally ignore your own body, don't you," Crowley says. Rhetorical. Then again, he can't imagine Castiel lying somewhere touching himself, sweating under the ministrations of his own fingers, back arching off a motel mattress in the darkness of some unoccupied room… Check that. He can imagine it, but it's supremely unlikely. If anything at all it would be Castiel standing there rubbing one out, staring down at masturbating himself, possibly in a setting even his tramp Winchesters wouldn't fuck.

Crowley exhales an uneven breath as Castiel's hand drops to his cock. Mutters: _Move fast, don't you._ The angel's awkward touch sends his mind traveling other roads. Castiel isn't looking at him, focused on the glans, foreskin, skin, cartilage, veins, slit of his cock. Crowley absorbs the sensitive changes in the angel's expression as Castiel connects his warm touch to spasms in Crowley's thighs, hitches in his quickening breath at spears of both the pain of injury and pleasure, mounting tension in his abdominal muscles, his hips shifting against the hard floor that's cold has seeped in through his trousers, body begging to writhe.

The angels pauses, wiping frothy blood from the corner of Crowley's mouth with his thumb. Crowley growls: _Get on with it._ Castiel frowns, but obliges. A flesh-mending touch would do more lasting harm.

Castiel obediently returns to his examination. Crowley's long groan is equal parts erotic satiation and unabated frustration. Lights come on in the angel's empty head one at a time, excruciatingly slowly.

Castiel changes mien in an instant.

Suddenly the hand on Crowley's dick is pulling in firm strokes, base to head, changing speed and pressure precisely and asynchronously. Too startled to speak, Crowley gapes – in surprise, but primarily for air, a scarce resource with drowning lungs, his breathing loud, hoarse and soggy. His legs writhe on their own, controlled by the aches twinging through his muscles, alternately dragging up, flinching apart and digging the heels of his immaculate dress shoes into the concrete.

The demon shuts his eyes and lets his body come, hot bliss rushing past Castiel's diligent hand, ejaculating ropes of sticky semen that land thick and sloppy on his stomach, his trousers, and Castiel's skin. 

He opens his eyes in scrutiny, then wide with confusion, bloody foam leaking down his chin, thrown by the angel's dead-on stare. He hates vulnerability all over again.

"I understand now," Castiel says. "Sex isn't necessarily the routine act of reproduction. It allows you to intimately effect the emotional state of a partner or partners to an extent difficult to otherwise achieve."

Shit.

Crowley regrets the seeming airhead got the point so comprehensively. His brow tightens with suspicious resentment. He understands, now, too. Unswayed by emotion, the creature within that vessel will not execute an act until it has methodically collected all available data. A perfect reconnaissance unit. His own blissed-out, suffering distracted body is interfering with his interest in appreciating either what that means for their partnership or the brutality of the design.

"I want you to lie down," Castiel says, loosing his grasp from Crowley's softening erection, curious, cum-drenched fingers reaching up to stroke the hair on Crowley's chest that doubtlessly outstrips that of Castiel's vessel.

Fantastically bad idea, that.

"No."

Being worked over by a machine has definite appeal, but Castiel has assimilated quite enough carnal knowledge for today and quite possibly some unfortunate details Crowley doesn't know he gave away.

"I thought you wanted us to have sex," Castiel says, confusion genuine.

Crowley grins, the balance of power tipped in his direction just like that, with Castiel hanging on his metered input.

"You're stunning, angel; I just don't relish throwing my back out on a concrete floor while I choke on my own blood. With your gracious consent, next time we do this my way."

Castiel doesn't hesitate.

"Yes."

Crowley privately wonders if the thing in there's data acquisition protocol has taken control. Angels aren't products of evolution. Their elegant simplicity smacks of adaptive inferiority. Crowley has played a thousand more roles in his comparatively short years and even transformed his human soul into a different species of energy. Castiel may have lived a few billion years, and he may have the raw power to decimate the majority of the results from God's fresh tries at life, but his fundamental limitations are showing. Crowley's confidence is born anew.

He can't wait to show him all the wrong things.

**Author's Note:**

> I had hoped to write more of this before hiatus ended and canon did something like, oh, shank the idea that Crowley is a demon, which wasn't unexpected but triggered my obsessive devotion to canon compliance.
> 
> This may be all there is of this one, and/or it may be rewritten for canon compliance later, but I hope it brightened your day as written!


End file.
